


Have Control Over Me

by TheVineSpeaketh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Brief Bethany Hawke, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Exhaustion, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Justice is Paranoid (Dragon Age), M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mental Health Issues, Poisoning, Pro-Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Recovery, Requited Love, Requited Unrequited Love, Reunions, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29130489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: “Why can’t he come here?” Anders asked. Stupid, stupid. He should’ve been thinking. Of course this was abnormal--Carver didn’t want to be anywhere near him on a good day, hardly spoke a word to him without adding some remark about how dangerous apostates could be. The fact that he was here, alone, making a request and playing nice should’ve clued Anders in that something was wrong. “What’s going on?”“I think he’s been poisoned,” Carver said, whispering and leaning in.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’d. 5am mess. Half-typed on a phone. Please take. I give.
> 
> Edit: Now that I have had ample time to become wakeful, I've changed some incorrect tags and want to add this small thing: the medicine in this fic is not a guide. If someone is poisoned, please contact your local Poison Control Center right away and follow their instructions!

_“How will you become happy?” my Mind asks, understanding that my Heart is unsure._

_“I do not know, but what I do know is that I’ll never stop until I get there,” my Heart replies._

_“Have control over me,” my Mind states, “and you will see that what you want and need is_ within _you already.”_

_\--Unknown_

Justice was always aware. Well, perhaps aware was not quite the appropriate word for it. _Wakeful_. Justice was always wakeful.

Even when Anders was sleeping, Justice was alert, cataloguing every sound; every scratch of the claws of stray dogs against the worn stone pathways of Darktown, every echoing grind of rats chewing on errant pieces of wood, every footstep of the urchins, the beggars, the rakes, and the gangs. Justice archived every suspicious shift of light, even from behind Anders’s eyelids, every lantern swinging past the rickety doors to the clinic, every flash of spells being thrown in a scuffle. Every strange smell, especially the potent odor of sword oil, leathers, armor. And any combination of the unusual in his senses thrust him into wakefulness, Justice chanting _danger_ in his mind, flooding him with adrenaline and preparing him to _fight_ , _now_ , or _die before they can take you_.

Anders sat upright, his chest heaving, his hand outstretched toward the door. Adrenaline sang in his veins, mana swirling just beneath his skin as he desperately tried to find out what it was that woke him. He was disoriented, his head spinning, his eyes straining to make out more than vague shapes in the dark. 

There; the clank of heavy armor, someone shifting from foot to foot outside the clinic door. The smell of sword oil. No telltale scent of lyrium, spearmint-sharp and winter-cold, but two out of three was enough. Anders’s hackles, already raised, remained so, and his focus sharpened. He slid to the floor as quietly as he could from his cot, spreading his stance so he was obscured behind the spindly frame of his bed. His staff was within reach, but he didn’t want to risk the sound the wood would make should he hit it on something. Instead, he kept himself low to the ground, crawling achingly slowly across the floor, one hand always pointing at the door, mana crackling just beneath his fingertips. He measured out each breath, trying to not to make a sound despite the hammering of his heart. 

A knock sounded on the far door. Anders crawled across the floor, sidling up to the ramshackle front wall of the clinic. He leaned forward, peering through the slats at whomever was loitering outside.

One of the lamps on the high walls of Darktown was lit, casting a thick, orange glow down over the figure. He was tall, his back leaning against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, his ankles crossed. He appeared to be alone, though Anders couldn’t be entirely sure there was no one lurking out of the halo of light, waiting to pounce in the dark. 

He shifted to a slightly larger gap in the slats, squinting to focus on the figure. The man was wearing armor, the low light outlining its shape. The pauldrons were not spiked and aggressive, the rerebrace not blocky and thick. Where the man’s ankles were crossed, slightly peeking out into the light, there were no spiked sabatons--instead, the dull gleam of dirty leather ate most of the light. He cast another gaze over the man, and-- _there_. The man tilted his head up. His hair was poofy and dark, his chin barely cleft. Carver Hawke, the younger brother of Garrett Hawke, the man who asked for the Deep Roads maps a week or so ago.

Anders deflated. His hand fell away from the wall, rising to press to his chest. He lowered himself from his crouch into a sit, and for a moment, all he did was huff out panicked breaths, willing his heart to slow down. The adrenaline drained from his system, and his hands began shaking, his mana slowly receding. When he was sure he could stand, he rose to his feet. He paced back toward his bed, numbly pulling on a nearby robe and shakily buttoning the chest before striding toward the door, not bothering with his hair.

He stopped and released a heavy breath before opening the door. Carver’s head shot down, his features cast immediately into shadow, but the impatience with which he shifted his weight back onto his feet was unmistakable. 

“Messere Hawke,” Anders said, his voice low, yet blessedly smooth. He hoped the odd lighting would hide the fact he was holding himself up entirely by the hand on the door. “To what do I owe the visit?”

Carver hulked like a beast, and often stalked about like one too, especially on the days when he was impatient or displeased. Anders had traveled with the brothers Hawke enough lately to know that between the two of them, Carver was the one with the temper. The only one capable of quenching it, it seemed, was Garrett, though he seemed just as liable to stoke it into a frenzy. 

Tonight, Carver loomed in the doorway like a dark omen, and Anders couldn’t see his face, but he could almost imagine it: Carver’s brows pinched low on his forehead, his eyes narrowed, a tic in his cheek where he had his jaw clenched. 

“Garrett needs you,” Carver said.

Anders’s brows shot up high on his forehead. “Oh?” Anders asked, feeling more of his balance returning to him as he stood. “And I’m to come at his every beck and call, am I? I’m more than willing to help the both of you after what you’ve done for me--” he didn’t dare mention Karl or Justice in front of Carver, at least not specifically-- “but if he needs me so badly, he can come find me himself.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Carver took a hasty step forward, and Anders’s adrenaline spiked again, a spark of lightning fizzling across his fingertips as he put a hand between him and Carver. The brief flash of orchid light illuminated Carver’s face. His face was haggard, bags beneath his eyes, and he had a cut, crusty with blood, across his nose. A smoky curl of unease unraveled in his gut.

“He can’t,” Carver ground out. “Told me to come get you. Told me to be quiet about it, too.”

“Why can’t he come here?” Anders asked. Stupid, stupid. He should’ve been thinking. Of course this was abnormal--Carver didn’t want to be anywhere near him on a good day, hardly spoke a word to him without adding some remark about how dangerous apostates could be. The fact that he was here, alone, making a request and playing _nice_ should’ve clued Anders in that something was wrong. “What’s going on?”

“I think he’s been poisoned,” Carver said, whispering and leaning in. 

Anders darted back into the clinic, vaguely aware of Carver stepping fully into the open door behind him. He rushed to a cabinet, throwing the doors wide open and pulling out a threadbare bag, pulling pouches and vials from within and tossing them into the bag. He grabbed a mortar and pestle, settling their heavy weight within the bag before pulling the belt on it shut. He yanked the pack across his chest, pacing across the room and reaching for his staff. “Lead me to him,” he said.

Once Anders had stepped out and locked the clinic, Carver didn’t seem to waste any time. Hand on his greatsword, he led Anders through the murky streets of Darktown. Carver took the lead, his eyes darting everywhere, and more than once he pressed in close to Anders, brushing shoulders, or reaching out to grab Anders and steer him to one or other side of the street.

Once they rode the makeshift lift to Lowtown, Anders spoke. “How long has he been showing symptoms of poisoning?”

“Most of the evening,” Carver murmured back, voice clipped. “We were at the Hanged Man after a job in Sundermount. We were driving back some Carta for an old contact. Garrett started complaining of a stomach ache, so I brought him home and laid him down. Just figured he’d drank too much again.”

“What symptoms is he showing?” Anders asked.

“Fucking stomach ache,” Carver hissed.

“Anything else off the top of your head? Anything at all?” Anders persisted.

Carver growled, tugging Anders aside quickly into a dark alley near the Qunari outpost. Anders pressed himself against the wall and fell silent, listening, and after a moment, the heavy, clanking footfalls of either a guard patrol or a Templar raiding group thundered by. Carver watched their retreating backs like his namesake, then yanked on Anders’s sleeve, whirling back into the open. 

They were not far from the Hawke house now, if Anders recalled correctly. Neither of the brothers Hawke seemed too fond of their uncle—Gamlen, or something like that—to bring friends around to their home, but Anders remembered from one time Garrett had asked, all remorseful, if Anders could help his mother with persistent migraines. 

“Anything else I should know before I see him?” Anders asked as they turned the final corner. 

Outside the home stood a couple of figures: an older man with a cross-patterned shirt, looking disgruntled and uncomfortable simultaneously, and many familiar faces. Fenris leaned at the base of the stairwell, and for once, he didn’t snarl or glare at Anders as he approached. His arms were crossed, his face severe, and he acknowledged Anders and Carver with a nod before turning his gaze back down toward the dirt. Sebastian Vael stood with his arms crossed at the top of the stairs, his thumb and forefinger pressed to the corners of his mouth, his white armor bronzed by the torchlight near the door. Merrill and Isabela were tucked into one another, sitting in a huddle next to the door, Merrill shaking as Isabela combed her fingers idly through Merrill’s hair. Isabela’s eyes were hollow, though she shot a half-hearted smile Anders’s way once she caught sight of him.

Carver stopped right before the front door. He cast Anders a glance that Anders didn’t have the chance to interpret before he was turning away. “Don’t let Mother in to see him,” Carver said, voice tight.

Anders nodded, steeling himself and wasting no time in stepping inside the house.

Immediately, his senses were assaulted by sickness. Justice picked out each bit of stimuli individually, snatching them from the air like he was catching butterflies, and pinned them down for scrutiny. Anders let them guide him, let them ground him. The muddled scents of sweat, vomit, and blood cloyed the air. There was a leather smell and the underlying smell of dog in here as well. There was murmuring and heavy breathing in the room immediately to his right, the door shut, and to his left, Leandra Hawke shook and sobbed, Varric Tethras sitting next to her. 

He raised his head, but said nothing. Anders approached Leandra, and as if she only just now noticed him, she blinked, eyes snagging on his face, blind for a moment before suddenly sharpening into focus. 

“Anders,” she breathed, coming to a stand. Tears streamed down her weathered face, her bright eyes--so much like Hawke’s--clouded with misery and worry. “You’re here, thank the Maker.”

“I’m here to help, Madam Hawke,” Anders said. “Is anyone with him?”

“Aveline,” Leandra said, her hand flying up to her mouth. “She told me to wait out here, said too many people wouldn’t help him.” She seemed to cling to that instruction with fervor, and Anders swelled with gratitude for Aveline. 

“She’s right,” he said. “You’ll have to stay out here with Varric.”

Leandra nodded, collapsing back onto her chair, reaching blindly to Varric’s hand resting on the tabletop. Varric gripped her back as if he’d been doing so off and on for the past few hours. 

Anders turned, headed to the closed door, and knocked quietly before letting himself in, making sure to slip in and close the door before Leandra could get a look.

The smells of illness were stronger here. Had he not been used to it, Anders would have been blindsided by the sheer weight of it, the implication of death and decay overwhelming and terrifying. As such, it sharpened his focus. Aveline sat next to a cot which had been clearly dragged into the room, laying a linen cloth on Hawke’s glistening forehead. She was stripped down to her tunic, her hair tied more tightly behind her head.

Anders swept to her side, setting down his bag and looking over Hawke. His pupils were blown, his breath leaving him in shallow, slow huffs. His eyes darted around the room, unable to fix on anything, snagging in places but drifting away. Anders reached forward and grasped his wrist, gauging the heat radiating from his skin and the sluggish, thready beat of his pulse. 

“Anders,” Aveline said, a small layer of sweat across her face and shoulders, her skin a mottled pink. Exhaustion etched itself in every line of her face, in the slump of her shoulders. 

“Has he been improving or worsening since you’ve been here?” Anders asked, pulling the covers away from Hawke’s body and pressing his ear to Hawke’s stomach. Hawke flinched at the contact, but seemed too weak to push Anders away.

“Worse,” Aveline said. “A half-hour or so ago, he was asking me where he was. He hasn’t been talking much since then.”

Anders nodded, kneeling by the bed and pulling open his bag. “Can you list symptoms for me?”

“Eyes blown, muttering to himself,” Aveline said, by rote. “Stomach ache. He’s thrown up three times. He said he had a headache earlier. Can’t seem to move much now. And he’s running a serious fever.”

“How long has he been unable to move?” Anders asked, reaching into his bag and pulling out the mortar and pestle. 

“An hour, maybe an hour and a half,” Aveline said. “Anders, I’m not much of a nursemaid, but tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“You’ve been helping admirably,” Anders said. He pulled out a small linen pouch and handed it to Aveline. “I need a few favors. First, start a fire in the hearth. The faster we can get it blazing, the better. Second, we’ll need a large bucket of fresh water. Send Fenris or Sebastian to get it if the well is too far--I need you close by. Last, I need you to take the mortar and pestle and grind the contents of that pouch into a fine dust, fine as you can make it. We’ll be mixing it into water.”

Aveline nodded. “Think Merrill might be able to help with the fire?”

“If she’s worth her salt as a mage, she ought to be,” Anders said. “While you’re at it, get Carver, Fenris, or Sebastian to haul in some wood for the fire. We need it _hot_.”

Aveline nodded once more, striding with purpose toward the door and shutting it quickly behind her. Anders heard murmured words to Leandra before the front door opened. 

Anders flattened his palms just above Hawke’s skin, closing his eyes and allowing magic to rush into his hands, stretching into Hawke and seeking the hurt flowing through him. Something burned him in his blood, and Anders reached out for it, trying to understand it.

A hand closed around his wrist like a vice, and Anders startled, almost jerking back. His eyes found Hawke’s. Hawke’s hair was drenched in sweat and matted to his forehead, his eyes wild and mouth agape. 

“No, no,” Hawke said, voice weak but desperate, and something twisted in Anders’s gut. “No, don’t, they’ll find us, leave it.”

“Shh, Hawke,” Anders said, pressing a hand over Hawke’s and lightly sending a cool spell through their touch. “Relax.”

But Hawke was not mollified. His gaze was still frantic, his eyes constantly shifting over toward the door. 

“You don’t understand,” Hawke huffed in mostly air. “They’ll find us and they’ll take Bethy, and they’ll send Carver to the Templars to make an example of him. Stop, leave me.”

Anders pushed down the spike of anger and sadness that struck him. Instead, he released Hawke’s still-gripping hand, sliding his cooling fingers over Hawke’s forehead, slipping his fingers into Hawke’s hair. Hawke moaned, eyes rolling back, and his grip loosened, his body relaxing back into the threadbare mattress.

“Shh,” Anders said. “No one is taking you. No one is taking Carver.”

“Bethany,” Hawke moaned. “Too many. Bethy. Too many. Too much. Slow, too slow. Not _good enough_.”

Anders shushed him, keeping one cooling hand on his forehead as he ran his other hand, palm down, over the length of Hawke’s body. The door jostled open behind him, Fenris stepping in with a large bucket full to the brim with water that Anders could mercifully see through. Carver followed him, a large stack of logs in his arms, and Merrill followed him to the fireplace. As Carver loaded the pile into the hearth, Merrill took a place kneeling in front of it and murmuring to herself as she held her hands out. Aveline stepped in last, closing the door behind her and setting to work at the mortar and pestle, the grinding sound permeating the otherwise quiet room. 

“Where do you need the water?” Fenris asked, a few beats of silence too late.

“Next to me,” Anders said. 

Fenris complied, the heavy bucket sloshing a little as Fenris set it down. He hovered, wraithlike yet utterly still, staring down at Hawke’s twisting brow. “Do you yet know what has happened to him?”

“It’s Felandaris poisoning,” Anders said. “It’s usually used to make pitch and Antivan Fire, but when ingested or introduced to an open wound, it causes confusion, stomach cramps, fever, and hallucinations.”

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline breathed. By the fire, Merrill’s stream of quiet speaking faltered. 

Fenris, however, simply nodded, looking over Hawke one last time. “Let me know if there is more I can do,” he said, turning back toward the door. 

“I need you and Carver,” Anders said. He set his hand down, leaving the cooling hand in Hawke’s hair. 

Fenris nodded, moving to the foot of the bed. 

Heat began to fill the room, the flickering of fire in the hearth dancing around the dim room. “The fire’s lit, hot as I can make it,” Merrill said, sounding morose and somewhat frightened.

“Thank you, Merrill,” Anders said, keeping his voice even. “Please rejoin Isabela. We’ll come get you once Hawke is better.” He paused. “Please also ask Varric and Sebastian to take Leandra for a walk. She needs some air.”

Merrill nodded, hesitating a little before striding out of the room, thankfully closing the door quickly. Once Anders was sure he heard Varric ushering Leandra out of the house, Anders shuffled on his knees and turned to Aveline, Carver, and Fenris.

“It is important we do this next bit correctly, or else Hawke will suffer for very little progress,” he said. “You will need to do what I say exactly how and when I say to do it. Do you understand?” Three nods, solemn and identical. 

Satisfied, Anders reached into his bag and pulled out another small pouch. He opened it, and from within he drew a small bit of wood. He brought it over to the fire. Anders focused his energy on it, forming a barrier around the wood. Then, slowly, the wood floated away from his hand, stopping directly over the roaring fire. The wood did not catch, but instead, it slowly blackened. 

As Anders watched it, he said, “Aveline, mix the contents of the mortar with water: two parts water, one part mixture. Have that ready to pour in his mouth on my say-so. Fenris and Carver, I will require you to hold him still.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Carver ground out, and Anders glanced back to catch the similarly distrustful curl of Fenris’s lips. 

“Felandaris cannot be magically burned out of the system without this,” Anders said, pulling the finished charcoal away from the fire. “I burned it just so its basic structure is left, and so there is no ash. I am going to feed a paste of this to Hawke, and since it is charcoal, he will refuse. You are to help me make him eat it. We will wait, and then I will burn the poison from his blood. It will be painful, but necessary.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Then, Aveline will pour the medicine into his mouth. That will taste much better, but since he isn’t keeping foods down, we will need to work to make sure he drinks that, too.”

Aveline looked uneasy, but nodded, taking a wooden cup from next to Hawke’s bed and drawing water into it, slowly pouring it into the mortar and swirling the pestle around to mix it. Carver ducked his head, but took his place by Hawke’s bed, his expression sour and dark. 

Fenris watched Anders a moment longer. “What should happen if we do not pursue this course of action?” he asked in a growl. 

“Then Hawke will die,” Anders said. “I know you do not trust me, Fenris, and I shall hardly expect that to change just because Hawke is in peril. But I must ask you to listen to me. For Hawke’s sake. Please.” 

Fenris’s eyes glittered like morganite in the firelight, his gaze assessing and heavy, and Justice reared in Anders, ready to force Fenris to _submit, lest a good man die_. But Fenris turned away and placed himself at the other side of Hawke’s bed, opposite Carver.

Anders took that as all the permission he was going to get, settling himself on his knees next to Hawke again. Anders reached for the empty cup Aveline had used, filled it with water from the bucket, and dropped the charcoal within. He briefly borrowed the pestle, crushing the charcoal and water into paste with the unused end of the pestle before setting it on the side table. 

In the interlude in which Anders had burned the charcoal, Hawke had become restless, insensate with the heat and the delirium of the poison. Anders cooled his hand again and rested it on Hawke’s cheek, turning his face toward Anders. Hawke’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused, before resting on Anders’s features. “Serrah,” Hawke rasped. “Please. Where’s my sister?”

Carver flinched. Unseeing, Hawke continued pleading gaze glued to Anders’s face. “She has long brown hair and brown eyes. She wears a red kerchief around her neck. Please, serrah, have you seen her? She was last seen in Lothering.”

“I have not,” Anders replied gently. “I need you to eat this, Hawke.”

Hawke groaned, shifting into Anders’s cold hand, then startled, sitting up a little. “Messere, are you with the Circle?”

“No,” Anders replied. “Relax. Lay back. You’re alright.”

“ _No_ ,” Hawke cried, trying feebly to struggle, to grasp at Anders’s hand. “I beg you, _please_. Stop this. They will find us if you use magic, they will take us all. Bethany is scared of the Circle, and Carver will be all alone, and I will—I shall not be strong enough to save them!” 

As if his strings had been cut, Hawke fell back onto the bed, eyes leaving Anders’s face to instead flit about the ceiling. “Not enough, not enough— _again_ , I shall not be enough… enough,” he murmured. 

Anders forced himself to focus, detaching his heart from Hawke’s words and letting his mind filter out all else. He looked to Carver and Fenris. “Ready?”

Fenris nodded, leaning down and grasping at Hawke’s right arm, his hand coming to rest on Hawke’s forehead. “I shall keep his head back.”

Carver seemed caught in a stupor, staring at his brother with an empty gaze Anders couldn’t decipher. Then, he also leaned in, Hawke’s other arm in check and his other hand lining Hawke’s jaw. 

After a tense moment, Anders could wait no longer. “Open his mouth,” he said. 

Carver pulled Hawke’s jaw, his lips parting in a small gap, and Anders poured the charcoal mixture into Hawke’s mouth. At once, Hawke moaned through his nose, twisting his head and grimacing, but Carver held his mouth shut, and Fenris kept him from leaning up. 

Eventually, weakly, Hawke swallowed, and Carver released his chin. Hawke sighed a shallow breath, his teeth and gums stained black.

“And now,” Anders said, beginning to count in his head, “we wait.” 

The minutes were tense. Carver was clearly perturbed by what Hawke had said, but kept himself closed off from it, keeping his head down and his gaze turned away from everyone. Fenris seemed to also be counting the seconds until they took further action, impatience writ in the hard line of his spine. Aveline put herself on standby, clearly the habit of an old soldier waiting to be given a command. Anders watched Hawke, watched the sweat beading on his brow and the weak rise and fall of his chest, and tried not to fret, not to worry he may have been too late. 

He ran a glowing hand over Hawke’s body. “He’s ready,” he said. “Hold his arms and legs down.”

Carver easily shifted to the lower half of the bed. Fenris dutifully got into a position from which he could restrain Hawke’s arms. 

“Ready?” Anders asked, placing his hands over Hawke’s chest and stomach. 

Nods from Fenris, Aveline, and Carver. 

“Keep him still,” Anders said, and his eyes slid closed. 

Magic glowed on his hands, bright white and pure, but Hawke arched up off the bed, mouth snapping open and arms and legs immediately thrashing. Fenris wrestled his arms into a lock, lyrium glowing briefly under his skin, and the cot creaked as Carver hauled himself onto Hawke’s legs. 

Hawke screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He screamed until his throat went hoarse, and then he whimpered and cried. Anders poured himself into the burning, simmering the poison out of Hawke’s blood carefully, trying not to overstress his heart. Then, when the last of the Felandaris bubbled away, Anders sunk himself into healing, sending soothing, cooling waves of magic into Hawke until Hawke quieted and Anders half-collapsed, spent, onto the floor. 

Aveline swooped low to catch him, but Anders waved her off tiredly. “Give Hawke the potion,” he croaked. 

Wordlessly, Aveline fed Hawke the potion, and he moaned quietly, but swallowed it.

The room was terribly quiet once again. Anders stayed slumped next to the bed, not looking up at anyone. His limbs felt heavy, and his head and vision were swimming. “He should rest now,” he murmured. “No guests until after I check on him again tomorrow.”

“You need rest too,” Aveline said. “Carver, is there anywhere here Anders could sleep?”

“Can’t,” Anders said, making a wobbly attempt to stand upright. “I need to bed at the clinic when it opens tomorrow.”

“You’re no use to your patients exhausted either,” she retorted. “If this is about Leandra, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Anders said with finality, leveraging himself up to a stand. He groggily placed the mortar and pestle into his pack, retrieving the pouches he used and tossing them in as well. “And besides, I truly do need to be at the clinic in the morning.” 

If the clinic also served as an excuse not to stay in Carver’s disgruntled vicinity, so be it. Justice was already alert again, looking for any evidence of danger. 

“Fine,” Aveline acquiesced. “At least let me walk you back.”

“I can agree to that,” Anders said, shouldering his pack and following Aveline to the door. Carver and Fenris said nothing, thankfully. Anders preferred to let this matter settle than speak to either of them about it at present. 

Anders, drained, felt tired to his bones, but accomplished, as he always did when he saved someone’s life. But Justice saw them as vulnerable, and Anders felt small and helpless, antsy to return to the relative safety of the clinic and Darktown. 

Before he could go, he was waylaid by a grateful Leandra and a tired, yet somehow equally grateful Varric. Leandra captured him in a tight hug, and Anders let himself savor its comfort for a moment. 

Varric patted Anders’s side companionably. “Well,” Varric said, not quite looking at Anders, “I don’t know what I was expecting, but… you did one hell of a job, Blondie.”

Anders shook his head. “I just did what needed to be done,” he replied. 

“Sure,” Varric said, something unreadable in his gaze, but Anders excused himself before Varric could enlighten him. The longer he stayed, the more frantic Justice would get. 

He tore himself through the gratitude of Hawke’s companions like walking through a spider web, and braved Aveline’s silent thankfulness all the way to Darktown. And he waved off Aveline’s actual thanks as she shut and locked his door behind him. 

Alone once again, he hummed to himself, padding over to his bed and falling onto it. Misery and exhaustion tugged at his thoughts as he remembered Hawke’s delirious pleas and his anguished cries. But sleep still swept over him, his body still crying for repair, for rest. Justice kept vigil through the night, and when Anders awoke, he felt as though he had not slept at all. 

But the people in Darktown needed a healer, and so he rose and set himself to work. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke was watching him, and slowly, the compassion and good humor that was quintessentially Hawke settled onto his face again. “You alright, Anders?” Hawke asked, as if he had not just liquefied someone for him. 
> 
> \+ o + o +
> 
> More late writing. This chapter gets gross. Brief explanation of a bloody spell. None of our lovelies are hurt—rip rando bandit tho lol get got

Anders had smiled and bid his last patient of the morning farewell when Isabela wandered into the clinic, looking like sin, as usual. Justice had clocked her from halfway up the street, the sharp click of her bootheels and the jingle of her jewelry echoing through Darktown, the smell of her perfume stretching ahead of her. When she arrived, Anders had to stifle a laugh as his patient, a young man with probably very little experience, almost walked into the wall instead of through the doorway. 

“Hey there, sweetness,” Isabela cooed, adopting a casual lean against one of the sturdier walls of the clinic. 

“Isabela,” Anders greeted, cleaning up the materials on his workstation. The linen bandages he had used had seen better days, the threads dark and fraying at the edges. He’d have to skip a few weeks of meals to buy something secondhand that he could strip for more.

A few moments of silence rolled by before Justice sent a nudge at Anders that he was _not alone_ , and Anders looked back up at Isabela, surprised she was just… relaxing there. Her face was calm, her hands idly playing with one of her knives, but her eyes were trained on Anders with an intensity he rarely saw in her.

“Do you need something specific, Bela?” Anders asked, straightening out. A cold wash of dread flew through him. “Is Hawke—?”

“No need to get all worked up,” Isabela said, kicking lightly off the wall and sheathing her knife in two smooth motions. “Hawke is fine. I just wanted to see if you’ve given running away with me and traveling the world any consideration.”

Relief flooded his senses, and he snorted, tucking his chin toward his chest, dropping a few metal tools in a nearby bucket of water. “I doubt an apostate ex-Warden would make a good traveling companion, Isabela.”

Isabela hummed, cupping her cheek and tapping her pinky against her cheekbone. “I don’t know,” she said. “You’re strong, nimble, good at hiding, and you’re _great_ with your hands.” She waggled her eyebrows at Anders, and he barked a laugh. “I think you’re more than you let on, gorgeous.”

Anders pulled the bucket over to his fireplace, casting a quick barrier around the bottom and heating the water within until it boiled, agitating the tools within with a long ladle. “I’m afraid I’m still too busy here to take you up on your generous offer,” Anders said. “I have much to do and no time to do it in.”

Justice hummed, seemingly satisfied with Anders’s answer. Anders wasn’t entirely surprised; Justice registered Isabela’s… well, _everything_ as an irritant or a threat: her smell, her voice, her tactile nature, her hidden motivations. Anders liked her well enough, enjoyed having someone besides Hawke and Varric around who didn’t seem so dead-set on disliking everyone she met. Sure, she cheated at cards, but so did Varric, and depending on the night, so did Fenris and Hawke, so that was hardly a point of complaint. 

“Oh well,” Isabela sighed, drawing Anders’s attention back to her. She hadn’t moved from her spot by the wall, but her presence could fill up a room just as easily as she could make herself disappear. “Can’t blame a girl for trying, right? Anyway, Leandra Hawke was asking after you. Was wondering if you could make another house call.”

“And she sent you as a messenger?” Anders asked, eyebrow quirked. He wrapped his hand in the sleeve of his cloak and pulled the bucket from the fire, setting it on a nearby table. Encasing his hand in a barrier, he reached in a pulled out the tools, setting them out to dry one by one on one of the last remaining clean pieces of linen in the clinic. Then, he sluiced the water across the floor, rivulets of dirtied water streaming into small drains. Isabela didn’t miss a beat, hopping up to sit on one of the worktables, her eyes trailing the water traveling across the floor. 

“Maybe she’s aware of my unbreakable confidence, my steeled resolve, and my excellent stealthing skills,” Isabela preened.

“Or perhaps she’s yet unaware of your finer qualities,” Anders replied, and Isabela threw a pouch of elfroot at him. Anders caught it and laughed at her mock pout.

“Who’s to say I’m not also here as an escort?” Isabela said. “I’m a right sight better than Carver, aren’t I? He had a face like he’d eaten a grapefruit when he showed up last night with you in tow.”

“Are we sure that isn’t his typical expression?” Anders asked, setting the bucket down and flicking a small amount of magic to make sure there were no puddles lingering on the floor. Justice protested at the magic use, and Anders’s body agreed. He ached in ways he couldn’t describe, even if he had all the words in Thedas, and he’d awoken with such a low amount of mana, he’d resolved himself to only use traditional healing methods today, unless a situation absolutely called for more. 

“Who knows? Can’t get that boy to loosen up no matter which way you bend him,” Isabela said, and Anders couldn’t conceal his loud snort. “C’mon, the clinic can hold for a half hour or so on its own.” She was suddenly next to him, tugging on his sleeve like an impatient child. “Let’s go pay Hawke a visit. I’ve made sure he knows that if he’s good, he’ll get a lollipop.”

“And I presume _you’re_ providing the lollipop?” Anders asked, grabbing a small herbalism bag he had readily packed for small excursions. “I can’t afford confections on a nonprofit’s salary.”

“We’ll work it out,” Isabela said with a wink, and with a quick twist of the lock on the door, the pair set off for Lowtown. 

In the daylight, walking about with a satchel heavily potent with the scent of herbs, Anders was far less likely to be caught or questioned, so the two made better time to the Hawke home than Anders and Carver had the night prior. Isabela waved at a few people near the Hanged Man, jogging ahead a little to ignore someone calling to her to settle a tab, but Anders kept up and stayed quiet, allowing Isabela to take up the foreground.

Justice was abuzz, noting every smell and sight and sound Anders came across, scrutinizing them with immense detail, and Anders tried to stave off the headache forming behind his eyes. He pressed a finger to his temple, allowing a brief burst of healing magic to wash over him. Justice’s thick sense of _disapproval_ radiated through him so vigorously that it almost nullified the healing in the first place.

“Okay there?” Isabela asked, and Anders found himself having to open his eyes to look at her. She was a few steps ahead, hand on one of the walls of Lowtown’s numerous buildings. She looked perky enough, but her eyes were sharp as she watched him.

“Just a headache,” Anders replied, smiling gently and approaching her. “Lead on.”

Isabela nodded, though she didn’t seem convinced. 

The pair made it to the Hawke house soon, and Isabela stopped at the base of the stairs to the door, gesturing up and grinning at Anders. “Gamlen’s out Maker knows where, and Carver is spending some time with Fenris at his mansion.”

“Excellent,” Anders said. “Am I to expect you to return me to Darktown?”

“Why, you going to miss me?” Isabela cooed, smiling charmingly. 

“Every second you’re gone,” Anders replied. 

“I do enjoy a devotee,” Isabela hummed, bouncing back from the stairs a little. “I’ve errands to run, so I’ll be back in half an hour. Try not to scandalize any uptight warriors while I’m gone--I like to watch.” She winked at him.

“Go, you heathen wench,” Anders said playfully, heading toward the door. As he knocked, Isabela’s laugh faded around the corner.

The door opened almost immediately, Leandra Hawke filling his view. She looked better than the night before, her face clear of sorrow, though she still looked tired. “Messere Anders,” she greeted, bowing a little and pulling the door back. “Come in, please. I’m so grateful you could make time for Garrett today.”

“Madam Hawke, please,” Anders said, stepping inside and placing a delicate hand on her arm. “I appreciate your respect, but it’s unnecessary. Garrett’s my friend. I’d do anything to help him.”

Leandra’s face softened, and she nodded, a bit of her gray-white hair slipping from where she had it pinned in a bun. “You can’t imagine my relief,” she said, leading Anders to a room further in the back of the house. “Knowing someone, anyone out there besides me worries and takes care of my boys—it takes a lot off my shoulders.”

Anders smiled congenially, Justice swirling just beneath his consciousness with _satisfaction_ . “I’d be a poor nurse if I _didn’t_ take care of my companions as I do my patients.” 

The pair stopped before the door, Leandra twisting her fingers, as if contemplating entering. 

“This is where Garrett is sleeping now?” Anders asked.

“Yes,” Leandra said. “He’d settled enough by this morning that we were able to move his bunk from the kitchen back to the bedroom.”

Anders nodded. “An excellent sign. Has he been up much?”

“He’s slept most of the morning,” Leandra replied. “He woke up a bit earlier, so I gave him water. He’s been able to keep down some broth, too.”

“Marvelous,” Anders said. 

“Can I get you anything, Anders?” Leandra asked. “Tea, perhaps? Have you eaten?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Anders said, but Leandra shook her head.

“A cup of tea would hardly be an imposition,” she argued. “I was about to put the kettle on myself.”

“Then tea would be lovely, thank you,” Anders replied. 

Leandra nodded, wiping her palms idly on her skirt before heading to the kitchen. Anders took this moment to knock quietly on the door before letting himself in.

The bedroom was small, sparse, with a thick pile of hay in the corner upon which rested Hawke’s enormous Mabari hound, named Thistle. He perked up his massive head as Anders entered, sniffing the air idly before resting himself back down. 

“Hello,” Anders murmured, stooping in front of Thistle and offering his hand. Thistle sniffed it dutifully, licking one long stripe up Anders’s palm, as if giving permission. Anders smiled, scratching behind Thistle’s left ear before rising to a stand and glancing over at the lower bed.

Hawke was asleep, wrapped up in blankets. At first glance, Hawke seemed completely normal, his skin free of sweat and the dark bags beneath his eyes almost gone. Anders set his medicine bag next to the bed and kneeled again, calling magic to his fingertips. He felt stretched thin, but quickly yet carefully passed his hands over Hawke’s body. Hawke’s breathing was deeper, but still haggard, and his stomach would reject heavier foods than broths and juices for a few days yet. Anders couldn’t find any trace of the poison left in him, though since it had most of the evening to run its course, Hawke’s body was still recovering. Anders could speed up the process a little, but with what little mana he had, it would certainly put him at a detriment again.

Anders lowered his hands, his magic flickering out, and suddenly he swooned, his head growing oddly light and his vision weaving about, as if he was rocking on a boat in a violent storm. He slumped a little forward, his hands sliding across Hawke’s stomach, and his forehead fell into Hawke’s side. He closed his eyes, trying to relax and breathe, willing the tiredness to pass. 

He had no idea how long he had lain there, half-slumped onto Hawke and trying to regain control of himself. Justice usually made him more than aware of how much time had passed when he couldn’t keep track of it himself, but for once, Justice was eerily quiet, as if he also felt Anders’s bone-deep exhaustion. Perhaps that was why Anders came around to find a hand carding through his hair.

Anders tried to recoil, but another hand latched gently onto his wrist. Anders blinked hard to clear his vision, and he focused on who was grabbing him, whose hand still rested in his hair. Hawke was awake, his bright eyes focused on Anders’s face, a soft smile on his features. He still looked tired, but he seemed lucid, and that was more than Anders could have asked for.

“Anders,” Hawke rasped. “I can’t tell you how incredible it is to see you.”

Anders sighed, reaching up to clasp at Hawke’s wrist. “It’s good to see you well,” he breathed, tiredness perhaps rendering him more open and raw than he would have been. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been rolled over by a bronto,” Hawke replied, smiling softly. 

Everything about him was softer, actually; the intensity of his gaze was shorn away by fatigue, the hard lines of his body rounded with recovery. He kept his hand buried in Anders’s hair, his grip tightening and loosening infinitesimally, the blunt edge of his nails scratching soothingly against Anders’s scalp. Anders tried to stifle a content sigh, working to keep his head upright. 

“Any remaining symptoms I should know about?” Anders asked instead, his voice near a whisper. “Your mother said you’ve been able to sip some broth.”

“I can’t think about whole foods without feeling a bit nauseated,” Hawke admitted, and was it just Anders’s imagination, or was Hawke subtly tugging on his head? “Tired as anything, too. But other than that, I’m feeling peachy. Much better than yesterday.” His grin twitched a bit. “I’ve been told I have you to thank for that.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Anders said, voice low in his throat, feeling oddly loose and relaxed. “You needed help.”

Hawke chuckled, the sound weak and dry. “Your job is thankless enough,” he replied, and yes, his fingers _were_ carding through Anders’s hair, tugging Anders gently yet insistently back toward the bedspread. “Let me properly thank you. Let me do more than that, actually. Did you even sleep last night?” 

It was Anders’s turn to chuckle quietly. “Would you believe me if I say I actually did?” he asked. Hawke’s eyes were brightening more and more by the second, as if Anders’s presence alone was rejuvenating him, healing him, and wasn’t that a lovely thought?

As Hawke combed through his hair, his prior drowsiness reared its head again. Pliant and sapped of energy and mana, Anders found his thoughts wandering down paths clandestine yet well-tread these past few weeks; thoughts of Garrett Hawke’s strong body, toned and powerful unlike most Circle-raised mages, no doubt from sunny days working a farmstead in Lothering. Thoughts of Hawke’s face, his aristocratic nose and bushy beard, his black hair askew at all times, the roguishly charming way he smiled, the angelic brightness of his eyes, and that blood smear across his nose, his perennial warpaint, titillating in its promise of victory, of danger. Thoughts of Hawke’s voice, the rumbling timbre of his words, the command in his tone, even when he was half-drunk or joking about. 

Anders had acknowledged Hawke had charisma from the moment they met. He acknowledged he’d been drawn to Hawke once Hawke agreed to help him free Karl. He acknowledged he admired Hawke when he did everything he could for Karl, despite the great risk it posed to him, and when Hawke responded to Justice by trying to _understand_ him. 

And he acknowledged he’d been hopelessly attracted to Hawke when he saved his life on the Wounded Coast a few days ago. Bandits ripping into merchant carts had been causing Aveline no end of grief, and Hawke had volunteered to go out to the coast and take care of them. 

Anders had stuck near the back, Aveline taking the front, Hawke and Varric a comfortable distance between them. Aveline was an impenetrable barrier, ducking low behind her shield and body-checking any bandits trying to squeeze past her. Hawke was whirling his staff, his magic wild and dynamic, loosing great heaving fireballs at clusters of thieves and summoning strong pillars of sparkling ice beneath his enemies’ feet. Varric loosed volley after volley of arrows, his fingers nimbly dancing across Bianca, expertly pulling cranks and sliding bolts into place. 

Anders had been certain he had two lines of defense between him and danger, and so he had been careless with his mana, blasting enemies at range and channeling energy to keep his comrades going. 

The dry shifting hiss of coarse soil and the wet _slck_ of poison dripping down a blade had been all the warning Anders had gotten. He whirled around to face the bandit behind him, his mana too low for a quick force blast. The bandit lunged for him, twin daggers raised, ready to plunge in just above his collarbones—

A great stone hand rose from the earth, rumbling like thunder yet striking fast as a viper. The hollow scrape of stone on stone groaned as the bandit was grasped, pulled up high, and _squeezed_. 

Bones cracked, glass vials of poison shattering, a half-aborted scream sounding from within the fist, and an eruption of blood showered across the area. Anders spun on his heel and ducked just in time to shield his face, his eyes shooting to Hawke.

 _Hawke_. His face was dark with fury, his eyes bright with rage, his lips flat and all jubilance void from his features. His hand was raised, his fist clenched. And when the blood sliced through the air like the relentless spray of high tide against the rough rocks on the coast, he didn’t flinch as it fell across his face. 

Anders felt as though Hawke had taken his very _heart_ from his chest and squeezed. He was lost in the blue-hot fire in Hawke’s eyes, in the ruthless line of his body, armor ridged and powerful like a crag above an abyss. And Maker, Anders felt like he was suspended over nothingness, held aloft only by the fist Hawke had raised over his head. 

When he lowered it, Anders was still transfixed. Hawke was watching him, and slowly, the compassion and good humor that was quintessentially Hawke settled onto his face again. “You alright, Anders?” Hawke asked, as if he had not just liquefied someone for him. 

“Maker’s tits, Hawke,” Varric grumbled, and Anders was released whatever spell Hawke had woven between them. He tugged at the lower half of his robes, peering at the large swathe of blood on his back. Justice multiplied the pungency of the smell, and had Anders not encountered worse in the Deep Roads, or even in his clinic on horrible days, he may have been moved to illness by just how much there was, and by what appeared to be flecks of bone, skin, hair, and viscera dotting the fabric. 

“Isn’t that a mixed metaphor?” Hawke asked, eyebrow quirked. 

Varric stopped mid-scramble down a ridge he’d climbed up on for a vantage point to fix Hawke with a flabbergasted look. “Okay, one: now’s certainly one of the worst times to notify me you actually _do_ listen when I talk shop. I _knew_ you weren’t actually falling asleep every time. I even thought to myself, ‘This man might be narcoleptic, the way he keeps passing out into his beers. Something’s not right.’ And two: I think a mixed metaphor’s called for here, Hawke, considering you may have actually _eviscerated_ someone. Literally.”

“Depends on if their bowels are out,” Hawke said cheekily, for which he received a sternly-ground out, “ _Hawke_ ,” from Aveline. 

“Listen,” Hawke said, hands up and voice placating, “Anders was in trouble, and if I hadn’t done it, we’d no doubt be short a fantastic healer. I thought on my feet. It got the job done. It’s a spell I only tend to use in emergencies for that _exact_ reason.” When he noticed Aveline stood nearby, her expression miffed and arms crossed, Hawke added, “It’s not as if I _like_ doing that.”

“Well, this’ll certainly make one hell of a story,” Varric said. “I can see it now—Garrett Hawke, the Stone Fist of Kirkwall.”

Hawke grimaced. “Workshop that,” he said. 

And as he and Varric began the walk back to town, Aveline taking the lead, Hawke cast a small, almost shy glance at Anders, mouthing, “Are you okay?” 

Anders had only nodded, jubilant and oddly aflutter and feeling utterly incapable of doing anything else. 

So. Maybe Anders was slightly besotted. Hawke had shown his stripes, his ugly blind rage and his compassionate normal, and Anders had been drawn in—not in spite of, but because of Hawke’s multitudes. 

Having Hawke’s hand in his hair, offering comfort when Anders should have been comforting him, served to make Anders’s fixation worse. Or better, depending on the viewpoint. 

“You nodding off again?”

Anders hummed, realizing his head had indeed followed Hawke’s intended path back down to the bedspread. His cheek rested against the straw mattress, the top of his head brushing Hawke’s ribs. Hawke kept his hand in Anders’s hair anyhow, playing gently with the strands.

“Mother came in a moment ago,” Hawke said, and Anders was so blissed out he couldn’t even feel embarrassed. “She said the tea will be here whenever you want it. I think my mother is enthralled by you. She may ask you to move in.”

“No room,” Anders managed on a sleepy mumble. Hawke laughed again, his ribs flexing. 

“Maybe we can convince her to kick Carver out,” Hawke said, sounding more like himself with every passing second. “Then it would be just the two of us. You could be my new brother.”

Anders made a protesting noise, bleary and almost unconscious. “No brothers,” he murmured. Warmth and contentment settled into his bones, his mind emptying. “Just us. I’d like that.”

His point made, Anders drifted off completely, too tired to notice Hawke’s hand sliding down to Anders’s neck, stroking up along his jaw and to his cheekbone, resting there. He was also too far gone to notice Hawke whispering, so quiet it could scarce be heard anyhow, “I’d like that, too.”


	3. Deep Roads Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.

Bliss, peace, and contentment were ephemeral. Time and again, Justice reared his head to bellow this, to demand Anders understand one simple rule: all that is good does not survive in man’s world. The proof of fact was Justice himself. If he was not needed, not necessary, Justice would not be here.

Five days, they had been trapped in the Deep Roads. Five days, they had slogged through the murk and gloom, chasing off spiders and slaying Darkspawn. Five days, the harsh clang of nails and teeth and swords rattled on Carver’s armor, the wheezing crank of Bianca’s distressed pulleys and mechanisms ground out, and the myriad of spellwork Hawke and Anders performed unleashed a menagerie of noise and light. Five days, and rations had been low from the start, deep mushrooms hastily cooked over small fires their only sustenance, the water running from stalactites their only way to quench their thirst. Five days of Justice’s over-analysis driving Anders insane and to exhaustion, pushing him to the point where Justice was once again mute and weakened, too, and Anders could finally close his eyes and  _ sleep _ when it wasn’t his turn to keep watch. Five days, and the only way Anders could tell was from experience, the Deep Roads reawakening a part of him he had longed to forget until his Calling finally began claiming his mind. 

Five days of frantically checking everyone for open wounds as soon as the last Darkspawn body hit the dirt. Anders had managed to rest a while and regain much of his strength for the Deep Road excursion. He had been expecting something would go wrong, had prepared for things to go awry, but he hadn’t expected  _ this, _ and so his meager stores of potions had run dry, his mana once again dipping so low that he stumbled on his feet as he walked. Calling a healing spell, even a small one, felt like fire raced through his veins, his whole body shaking beyond control. He  _ had  _ to do it. If he didn’t keep these people alive, then all would be lost, in more ways than he allowed himself to think about. So he healed, and the pain it caused became rote, and he checked them all, over and over and over again. 

And they had almost all made it. 

Anders couldn’t even take any comfort in the fact that there had been an alternative. That thanks to him, the brothers Hawke had a choice. That it wasn’t an complete reenactment of Garrett’s most painful memory from only a year ago. Carver didn’t end up like Bethany, no. But in time, Carver may come to resent his brother’s choice, as if Carver needed more reasons to harbor animosity toward his brother. All this, presuming Carver survived his Joining at all. 

Varric was somber, yet steadfast, and Hawke leaned on him to the exclusion of Anders. Anders felt a pit in his stomach, and could barely stand to look at Hawke anyhow. He couldn’t bear to see Hawke’s brows so low over his eyes, to hear Hawke sniffling quietly as they tried to sleep, to gauge the slump of his shoulders as they walked. Justice was not here, but the feeling of  _ failure _ was nevertheless sharp on the back of Anders’s tongue, pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

Four of them went into those Deep Roads, trapped together. Five days later, only three of them saw the sunlight again. 

Anders didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t the quiet way the three of them stood there in Kirkwall for a long while, unmoving and uncertain. Anders choked on his words, his arms frozen at his sides, exhaustion tugging his head down, down, like the dream-like memory of Hawke’s hands in his hair. He wanted to offer comfort, to help heal, if he could, but nothing came but silence. 

A long while passed which could not be measured by any human means, and then Hawke turned and walked away, disappearing into the milling crowds of midday Lowtown without a word. Varric sighed, and walked off in his own direction. Alone, Anders shambled to Darktown, arriving at his clinic with no memory of how he got there. 

Anders slept for several days straight, only coaxed from his slumber by concerned Darktown people who brought him what little food they could find, who tried to launder his robes and keep him watered. It was strange to be cared for, after spending his time endlessly caring. 

Varric dropped by only once, a dimmer version of his bright wit about him. He checked on Anders, feebly trying to mask it as a purely social visit, asking for a lame-legged favor that Anders could accomplish in seconds. He hadn’t seen Hawke. He was glad Anders was kicking around. He hadn’t heard from Bartrand. Then, when he’d drank his fill of Anders’s company, he left. 

Anders didn’t know how to check on Hawke. He didn’t know how to make things up to Varric, either. And the clinic beckoned him once more, people constantly in need. It was easier to pretend he couldn’t make time, that Hawke needed his space, that he would come to Anders if he wanted to see him. So Anders worked and waited, and Justice kept his vigilance, painting phantoms of templars in the dark that shook Anders from sleep. Time wore on, as it always did. Things steadied, as they tend to do. The earth did not remain shaken for long. 

Anders didn’t see Hawke for three years. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time changes all things, but a chance meeting reminds Anders that some things will never truly leave you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More late night writing shenanigans. I started a new job, so I had that brief hiatus. I’m back now! As you can see. 
> 
> I expect one more chapter to this tale. We’ll see if it decides to run away with me like this one did.

_Time does not bring relief; you all have lied_

_Who told me time would ease me of my pain!_

_I miss him in the weeping of the rain;_

_I want him at the shrinking of the tide;_

_The old snows melt from every mountain-side,_

_And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;_

_But last year’s bitter loving must remain_

_Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide._

_There are a hundred places where I fear_

_To go,—so with his memory they brim._

_And entering with relief some quiet place_

_Where never fell his foot or shone his face_

_I say, “There is no memory of him here!”_

_And so stand stricken, so remembering him._

—Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Time Does Not Bring Relief” from Collected Poems  
  


For once, Darktown was quiet. Some might even call it “peaceful,” if they were over-familiar with Darktown’s usual prevalent aura of misery, pain, and fear, and they would be correct to do so. Sunlight filtered calmingly through the openings in Kirkwall’s heavy namesake, the rains of the past few days sapping the oppressive heat from the air. The scent of petrichor lingered, soothing and soft, but the sunlight kept spirits high. 

In the clinic, the rain had been an opportunity. Anders indulged himself in a bit of whimsy, channeling rainwater into the clinic to clean almost everything. He had washed the floors, the frames of the beds, the tables, the equipment, and when that was done, he had set himself to the linens and the cloth bandages, scrubbing and hanging everything on every dry surface he could find, even stringing lines up between the walls. Once the work was done, he wove between dripping bedsheets to present himself to the rain, giving himself a much-needed and thoroughly-enjoyed scrub through. 

And when he was dry and back in some clean robes, he’d felt light and airy for the first time in a while, and Justice had been blessedly quiet about the day, as if he hadn’t even noticed Anders had taken time for himself. He’d been able to sleep most of the night, Justice frightening him awake at a somewhat reasonable hour to rise anyhow, and Anders worked off the adrenaline by folding and putting away everything hanging which was dry.

The day remained calm, to Anders’s astonishment. The clinic only had one or two people coming in, each with minor problems that warranted simple solutions. Anders had spent the day restocking on necessary supplies, and in the afternoon, Jaime Gaudreau, a young man from Orlais, dropped in to offer any assistance Anders needed.

Jaime had joined Anders as a volunteer a few months ago, fresh off the boat from Orlais and eager to help make a difference. He was tall, strapping yet lithe, with dark hair and dark eyes to complement the tone of his bronze skin and a moustache so in keeping with the fanciful Orlesian style that Anders found it comically endearing. He was jubilant, bubbly and witty, and his accent was thickest when he was excited or agitated. 

Anders had been wary of him at first, unable to fathom why someone would want to assist him for free and risk being caught aiding an apostate (and one so close to being considered an abomination as well). Even Justice had clocked all the things about him that aroused suspicion, magnifying them and bringing them to Anders’s attention repeatedly; his clothes were somewhat nice, his hygiene impeccable, and he carried weapons on his person. He had no known associates, friends, or family in Kirkwall—his appearance was almost too convenient. 

But as they worked together, they got to know one another better, and any questions Anders had, Jaime willingly explained. He had been a chevalier’s apprentice for a few years, traveling place to place, especially to Grand Tourneys, and such travel necessitated leaving all connections behind. 

He’d done so gladly, he admitted once to Anders on a dark night after a long, difficult day, the pair sat on the floor of the clinic, sharing a flask Jaime carried with him. The dim lamplight within the clinic cast his face half in shadow and deepened the lines in his face, making him appear haggard and beyond his years. 

“My mother and father were not so kind to me,” he’d murmured, chin tipped down, passing the flask in a limp grasp. “I was—am, ah—a bastard. Whose bastard I was seemed to be irrelevant. Both of them despised me. I imagine one of them was angry at the infidelity and the other angry with the evidence.”

Anders had said nothing, but had companionably passed the flask back and scooted a little closer to Jaime, which Jaime seemed to accept as enough. 

He had been happy with the chevalier, but as they say, all good things must come to an end. Jaime’s benefactor was bringing him all the way from Montsimmard to Val Royeaux for a tourney, only for his benefactor to be cut down by bandits on the road just outside Verchiel. Of all the things to kill a chevalier, thieves and brigands were hardly the most worthy. 

Jaime had tried to heal the chevalier to no success. He died of his wounds soon after, and Jaime was left alone. He could attempt to find a new benefactor, or compete to become a chevalier, but the life seemed brittle to him now. So he decided instead to follow what suited him, and came to the Free Marches to follow a dragon-studying expedition. He’d paused in Kirkwall when he’d heard of Anders’s clinic, and the rest Anders already knew. 

His medical experience came from learning field medicine from the chevalier, and it showed. Jaime was a reactive caretaker, able to fashion splints and bandages out of nothing and set bones with precision and speed, but was lousy with childbirthing and dentistry, and couldn’t help with anything in the mind beyond soul-sickness from battle or traumatic injury. But he was strong enough to lift some of the heavier patients Anders had (miners mostly), was great with kids, and could identify most of the plant varieties Anders worked with for poultices and potions. Jaime quickly became indispensable to the clinic, and Jaime had vowed to stick around even after the dragon expedition was long gone.

Anders doubted Jaime had intended his offer of help to extend to washing out old potion bottles, but Jaime had taken up to the task without so much as a murmur of dissent, filling a large wooden basin with water and taking an old linen to use as a hand towel. 

“Your hair’s so long,” Jaime murmured, and Anders looked up from where he’d been making Elfroot potions, his green-tipped hands paused in the middle of the air, and he smiled sheepishly. 

“Is it?” he asked, running his hand absently through his locks, frowning to himself when they fell down over his shoulder, hanging down to about the middle of his ribs. “Oh.”

Jaime laughed, a melodious sound that always summoned a grin to Anders’s cheeks. “You would not notice a snofleur if it wandered past your nose, Anders.”

“I don’t recall my paying you to sass me,” Anders groused good-naturedly.

“I don’t recall you paying me at all,” Jaime retorted. “Have I bullied you into submission? Shall we negotiate the terms of your surrender?”

“Spoken like a true Orlesian,” Anders said, and Jaime laughed again. Anders leaned back over his work, prying some Elfroot free from the bundle. Now that it had been brought to his attention, he was hyperaware of the tips of his blond hair brushing against the Elfroot and the skin of his wrist. 

“Should I cut it?” Anders asked, tugging absently at some strands of his hair. He’d been tying it back as usual every morning, but Jaime was right: he _hadn’t_ noticed it getting this long. Perhaps _because_ he tied it back, he thought. 

“No,” Jaime said, smiling, one hand scrubbing through the bristly stubble on his cheek. He looked back down to the bottles he was washing. “ _Tu as de beaux cheveux_ ,” he murmured. 

Anders snorted to himself. “You’ll have to teach me Orlesian _eventually_ ,” he said, plugging a bottle with a stopper. “You can’t remain all mysterious forever.”

“I can and I shall,” Jaime said cheekily, and Anders barked a laugh. 

The simple comfort of speaking with Jaime always ignited a spark of peace and contentment in him. Justice _disapproved_ so loudly Anders nearly flinched, but he kept his hands steady, carefully laying out another bundle of Elfroot to turn into potions. _Waste_ , Justice bubbled inside him, threatening to boil over. 

“So,” Jaime said, unaware of Anders’s struggle and never content with letting silence reign for long, “do you have any plans this evening?” 

“Not in the slightest,” Anders said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “And you?”

“I was considering having drinks at the Hanged Man,” Jaime replied, drying off a bottle, the muscles in his toned forearms flexing. “I’ve been spending all my time with you and not exploring the city! I have not met anyone outside you and a few others, and lovely as you all may be, I am going a little crazy.”

“You seem the sort,” Anders mused. “Well, the Hanged Man isn’t a reputable place, but I presume you know that already and find it appealing.”

“You know me so well, my friend,” Jaime said. “I had heard it attracted an adventurous sort. And,” Jaime added with a pointed look at Anders, “I can practically hear you saying, ‘You have such nice clothes, they’d let you into bars in Hightown, Jaime,’ but I find such places…” Jaime scrunched his nose in an expression that made him look so boyish and young. “ _Ennuyeux_ , ehm… without interest?”

“Boring?” Anders supplied. 

Jaime snapped his fingers, pointing at Anders. “That’s the one,” Jaime said.

“Well, I wish you all the best,” Anders said. “You’re right about my disapproval, but I certainly won’t stop you.”

“If you are so worried, you could be my chaperone,” Jaime said, clearly trying to make it sound enticing and missing by a mile. 

“I appreciate the offer,” Anders said, keeping his eyes focused on his work, “but today is a rare slow day for the clinic, and I intend to make the most of it.”

That was only half the truth; the clinic rarely did have days like these, and Anders liked to put himself ahead of the curve by preparing potions, going out to Sundermount for herbs, or cleaning. The other half of the truth Anders hadn’t seen for over three years, and the thought of being in the old stomping grounds, reliving old memories and, just possibly, seeing someone he once knew after such a long time was simultaneously frightening and tempting. 

Hawke was a difficult man to forget. Even after all this time, even with the remaining guilt from the Deep Roads catastrophe, Anders found himself gently longing. He found himself dreaming of Hawke, thinking of him in moments when his hands were busy and his mind was drifting. Hawke had not come to him, and in his cowardice he had not gone to see Hawke, and it seemed that was the way things were. He had regrets, yes, but perhaps time alone had softened the sting of what happened to Hawke. How could he barge back into Hawke’s life and begrudge him his solace? 

And anyway, Anders had hardly been a part of Hawke’s life at that point--who’s to say Hawke even remembered Anders, especially after all this time had passed? Who was to say, if Hawke and Anders were at The Hanged Man at the same time, that Hawke would even _recognize_ him? He hardly thought he’d made enough of an impact on Hawke for Hawke to notice he was even gone, let alone care about it or miss him.

Justice insisted things were better this way; Hawke was a _distraction_ , and Anders never seemed to be able to _focus_ when Hawke was around. His and Justice’s greater goals became lost in a fae-like haze whenever Hawke was around, and all he could do was as Hawke asked of him, as if Hawke was magnetic north and Anders was a lodestone inevitably turned to his direction. A man who had such power over Anders was dangerous, especially when that power remained unchecked. No sense in lingering over the past; they were better off without Messere Hawke. 

Yet, still, Anders dreamed, and wanted, and yearned.

Anders looked up from his work, surprised to see Jaime directly in front of him. This close, Anders could smell the soaps he used, the thick yet calming scent of his shaving cream, could see a patch of dark hair he missed just under his chin. “I see how much you work yourself, Anders,” he murmured, his voice low like a caress. “You expect so much of yourself, my friend. But you need to remember that you are but a man, and you cannot expect to do everything you feel you must in a single day.”

Anders snorted. “I hardly think taking care of others and maintaining the clinic count as ‘expecting so much of myself,’” he said, but his attempt at nonchalant cheer fell somewhat flat with Jaime’s proximity.

“Have you ever really considered how large a task you have set for yourself?” Jaime said, folding his arms and mercifully leaning away a little. “I mean, _really_ considered it? All of the denizens of Darktown, and even a large bunch from Lowtown, utilize your clinic and its services. And it’s not just for injuries or illnesses, but for general health, or withdrawals, or soul-sickness, or pregnancies, or dentistry. That’s hardly a task, then? I would not assign that task to one man, were I in any position to do so--I’d assign it to at least fifty.”

“I’m the only one willing and able to do it,” Anders replied, a little too quickly to be construed as casual. His hands tightened around a bundle of Elfroot. Justice roared to life in him, humming and crackling just beneath the surface of Ander’s skin. “What would you suggest? I shirk my duty because it’s too difficult for one man to take on? That is the typical excuse—‘Nothing shall change, and your life shall be misery if you continue to do this, so you should lay down the sword and instead take up more selfish pursuits. It’s thankless work, and those for whom you do it are hardly the thankful sort. A life lived entirely in the service of others is hardly one worth living, wouldn’t you agree?’” 

“Maker’s breath, I was not insinuating that, _mon hellion passionné_ ,” Jaime said, frowning. “I am simply saying this is quite the task ahead of you, so perhaps you ought to focus some of your energy on taking care of _yourself_ every once in a while.”

Anders deadpanned. “I don’t think going out for drinks counts as taking care of myself.”

Jaime shook his head. “The chevalier who trained me, Russell Durand, once taught me a very important lesson I now bring with me everywhere: ‘The absence of work is not a waste. The absence of joy _is_.’”

Before Anders could get over Justice’s _derision_ enough to digest that, Jaime continued.

“Am I saying you go out to get drinks every night? Of course not. Drinks are expensive and I know you value your time and your work. But am I saying on nights like this, when the clinic is slow and you’ve run out of chores to do, you maybe take time off to, eh, relax a little?” He shrugged. “Perhaps. It only has to be the one drink, too, and never anything more than that. You drink and decide it is not the night? Then you return.”

Anders stared at Jaime a long moment, tension easing out of his muscles. When he felt completely deflated, he mustered a weak laugh. “You must think I’m absolutely mad.”

“I think you are passionate,” Jaime replied instantly, thoughtlessly. “I do not begrudge you this. I admire it, in fact.”

“Oh,” Anders said, feeling his cheeks color. “Well… thank you.”

Jaime inclined his head in response. “So,” he said, “shall I include you in my evening excursion?”

“I’m unsure how you know so many more complicated words but needed my help with the word ‘boring,’” Anders said, already stowing the Elfroot in his hands in a large pouch. 

“It is not that I did not _know_ ,” Jaime said with a sniff. “It is that I _forgot_.”

“Of course,” Anders said. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. One drink.”

“Excellent!” Jaime said, clapping his hands together. “ _Allez_! The night is young, and we are both beautiful!”

“I’m going to leave a sign on the clinic,” Anders said. “That way, if an emergency happens, someone knows where to find me.”

“Good, yes,” Jaime said, vibrating with excitement and impatience. 

A quickly-scrawled sign and a quick walk later, the Hanged Man came into view. Anders’s nerves buzzed to life, and his heart began to thrum quickly in his chest, as if he’d been struck by a stray spark. He hadn’t been here in so long, yet the memories sprung upon him as if he’d only experienced them yesterday. 

Unaware of his inner turmoil, Jaime ushered Anders into the door, stepping in behind him. At once, Anders was hit with the full sensory experience the Hanged Man had to offer; the smell of cheap ale, piss, tobacco smoke, and the faintest traces of blood permeated the air, the dim light from the lanterns casting the whole bar in a strange yellow-orange light that made everyone look somewhat sinister and tired. The heavy tables cluttered the room, the stairs to the back rooms still rickety and creaky when anyone so much as glanced at them. Busty women sat with inebriated men, cards were being played at numerous tables, and the atmosphere was generally a raucous one. 

Jaime perked up visibly next to Anders, and Anders forgot his own misery a moment. He laughed in delight at the open awe on Jaime’s face. “Are you pleased?” he asked, loud enough to be heard over the din of conversation.

“I am not disappointed,” Jaime replied. “Come, let us sit at the bar. I wish to observe this card game everyone is playing before trying my hand at it.”

“Very well,” Anders replied, following Jaime to the bar. “But I warn you, everyone cheats at Wicked Grace here. It’s considered strategy.”

“I’m counting on it,” Jaime replied with a wink, and the pair sat themselves at the bar.

Two sovereigns and a few moments later, their drinks were served, and as Anders took a sip, he was transported. Ah, when had he last tasted the absolutely bland yet unforgettable signature brew of the Hanged Man? He couldn't recall on account of the fact that he didn’t remember actually going out to drink much even when he _was_ spending more of his time with Hawke and Varric; he had too much going on at the clinic, and had felt like too much of an outsider besides. But Hawke had encouraged him every once in a while, and most of the group had always been welcoming, even if Fenris hadn’t been. 

“Anders?” 

Anders shook himself back to the present, turning to look at his companion. Jaime’s expression was concerned yet somehow sympathetic, as if he already knew what it was Anders was thinking of. 

“Are you alright?” Jaime asked anyhow.

Anders furrowed his brow. He considered lying, or offering some half-answer, but he’d spent enough time with Jaime to know he was an open sort who wouldn’t bat an eye at having Anders share some of his deeper, more private thoughts with him. He was an exceptional confidante, friendly and thoughtful. It wouldn’t hurt to suss out his feelings, either. 

So he settled on the truth. “I used to come here years ago,” Anders said. 

Jaime’s eyebrows rose. “I take it much has changed since then?” he asked.

Anders laughed dryly. “Much indeed. I was a different man then, obviously, but I… I used to come here with friends.” He set his mug down, turning it around and around in circles on the bartop. 

“And they are your friends no longer?” Jaime asked. At Anders’s nod, he added, “A pity. What changed, if you don’t mind the asking?”

“Something… happened,” Anders said, very obviously evasive, but he couldn’t bear talking about Carver even now. “I haven’t seen them since.” He chuckled, a wounded sound. “I don’t even know if they’re alive. They’re all in a dangerous line of work.”

Jaime just nodded, bless him, and took a drink of his ale. “Old memories still live here, I take it.” Anders nodded, and Jaime sighed. “Well, I of course do not know the circumstances, but I believe all is not lost. Even if such friends were never meant to be yours, I believe you have the ability to begin anew. You are easy to get along with and a good man.” 

He rested his hand on Anders’s shoulder, and Anders felt a shaky smile emerge as he shot him a thankful look. Jaime’s eyes were sparkling, even in the dim light, and Anders could tell he was smiling even beneath his thick mustache. 

“I think I’ve the idea of that card game,” Jaime said, polishing off his drink and ordering another. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to try my hand at a round or two.”

“Be my guest,” Anders said. “Watch your coinpurse.”

Jaime snickered, patting his shoulder one last time before wandering to a table. Anders watched him go, feeling oddly content after baring a bit of himself. Perhaps he was right, if a bit optimistic; perhaps there was a chance for something new to flourish. Perhaps this was not a dead end, but an opportunity.

He emptied his mug, setting it down on the bar. A pleasant buzz loosened up his tense shoulders, eased the unconscious clenching of his jaw. Maybe he’d have another. Jaime had been right; it’d been too long since he just allowed himself to relax. The world wasn’t going to burn down just because he decided to have a drink or two. Plus, he wanted to keep an eye on Jaime. He had no doubt Jaime was more than capable of taking care of himself, but in the Hanged Man, it always paid to have someone watching your back. 

Anders flagged down the barman, accepting another mug of lukewarm ale, and turned slightly in his chair, watching as Jaime was dealt into the latest round of Wicked Grace. He was jubilant, eyes still twinkling, and he animatedly gestured as he spoke to his fellow card players, no doubt regaling them with a tale from his time as an almost-chevalier. Anders smiled and took a sip from his mug, scanning the rest of the room.

The air fled his lungs, panic lunging into the forefront of his mind, all sense of calm lost. Walking down the stairs from the back room, red stripe of blood across the bridge of his distinguished nose, dark hair ruffled and untamed, was Garrett Hawke. His bright eyes scanned the room as he descended, flying right by Anders, and then snapping back as if magnetized. He froze midstep, as if Anders was the kind of person for whom people would suddenly stop and stare.

They watched each other, time dilating so much Anders was sure they had been still for hours. “He’s _here_ ,” Anders thought, chest expanding with hope, fingertips twitching with nerves. “He must have been with Varric, since he came from the back rooms.” His eyes traitorously catalogued every difference in Hawke since they’d last spoken—his robes were of finer make, his staff of higher quality, his muscles more filled out, and his cheeks not quite so sallow. He looked healthy, much healthier than Anders had ever really gotten the chance to know him, and in a much better way, too. 

Anders allowed himself to be happy for Hawke, trying not to let it stray so far as to be insinuation. After all, as this moment proved, Hawke may have recognized him, and Anders may have still been a bit gone over Hawke, but that didn’t mean Hawke had any feelings for Anders in the first place, let alone, if he did, that they survived the test of time. Anders let himself be happy Hawke seemed to have found an equilibrium. 

After what felt like a fresh eternity, Hawke moved once again, but not toward the door. He wound around the tables without a second glance, his eyes trained on Anders with such an intense, unwavering stare that Anders felt exposed. He half-turned on his stool, bringing his lukewarm drink back to his lips and willing his heart to slow down. He barely tasted as he drank, too caught up in if Hawke would take his turning away as a sign of dismissal. Half of him wanted Hawke to, if only to give Anders closure once and for all. Another part of him, though, one that ached like a muscle never allowed to rest, wanted Hawke to persevere anyhow. He wanted Hawke to approach and smile at him, to focus his attention on Anders, to look upon Anders at all, pinning him in place and bathing him in the sunlight-warmth of Hawke’s open kindness. What would he say, should he choose to say anything at all? Would the sound of his voice alone enrapture and despair Anders all over again? 

He felt pathetic, and the sentiment was echoed deep in a subconscious place that could only be Justice. Shame prickled at his cheeks, and he drank again, scanning the room in his periphery for Jaime. Perhaps he should go. Or perhaps he should entreat Jaime to rescue him, somehow, from himself. 

The stool to his right squeaked against the floor as someone settled in next to him. Anders wanted to remain neutral, but couldn’t help it—he turned, a sunflower seeking the sunlight. 

This close, Anders couldn’t help but notice the neater trim of Hawke’s beard, the freckles across his cheeks. He couldn’t help but notice the smell of pomade and something else, perhaps rosewater. But beneath it all, the smell of Garrett Hawke still remained, and Anders strangely found relief in that. 

“Anders,” Hawke breathed, sounding winded and incredulous. 

“Garrett Hawke,” Anders replied, allowing himself a small smile, feeling somewhat rueful. 

“I haven’t seen you since…” he trailed off, his eyes flicking animatedly over Anders’ face. “Maker, how long has it been?”

“A while,” Anders stuttered out, the stark memory of three years ago precisely still painful. 

If Hawke’s face was anything to go by, he remembered well the circumstances in which they parted, too. Anders bit the inside of his cheek. 

“A while,” Hawke agreed, softly. He hailed the bartender, immediately receiving a drink. 

Anders nodded to the flagon in front of Hawke. “I take it you’re still a regular, then?”

Hawke looked at Anders, then at the drink, and then back at Anders, a warm smile burgeoning on his face. “Is it that obvious?” At Anders’s nod, he laughed, and added, “Well, I’ve also done him a few favors, so if I get special treatment, there’s that too.”

Anders nodded, fiddling with the handle on his drink. “So you’ve been busy, then?”

Hawke’s lips quirked up on one side. “You could say that, yes,” he replied. “Bartrand disappeared after the expedition, but he didn’t take the crew with him. So the whole expedition defaulted to Varric, and he split the earnings as promised. I had enough to buy back the Amell Estate in Hightown, with much left over.” 

Anders observed the new armor and let himself indulge in honestly _incredible_ smells that followed Hawke, putting the pieces together. It seemed Hawke had a shiny, brand new life. Anders ached deep within, ever reaching for something he couldn’t have. “Shouldn’t you be resting on your laurels, then?”

Hawke laughed. “To be honest, for the first month or so, I did,” he replied. “I was miserable. I’ve never liked Hightown, and to be honest, Mother and I were worried sick about Carver.” Anders sucked in a breath at the name. “Once we got Carver’s first letter, I suddenly couldn’t stand being cooped up in the house a moment longer. Varric was still around, so I prodded him for something to do, and next thing I know, I’m back to doing bit jobs. Seen a few familiar faces, too. Apparently I’m well-remembered.”

Anders took a drink woodenly, feeling like he’d been worn to nothing by the inexorable tide. The guilt that hounded him for _years_ , righteously bellowing that Anders had not done enough to keep Carver safe, was suddenly gone, but the wreckage it left behind stripped Anders of his senses. Carver was alive, and Hawke had… had what? Had let him go on wondering? Had genuinely forgotten about Anders? Had maybe thought he would be better off without Anders?

Whatever the reason, it turned the taste of his drink to ink, sour and bitter in his mouth. Or maybe that was Justice, simmering with _rage_ beneath Anders’s skin. Despite Justice’s kinetic energy, Anders felt tired and heavy, slumping onto his elbows on the bar. 

“Anders?” Hawke asked, making an aborted motion to touch Anders’s shoulder. 

“I’m happy for you,” Anders rasped. “Truly.”

“Anders,” Hawke said, and Anders chanced a glance over at him. He looked lost, alarmed, concerned, his brow furrowed, his eyes slightly narrowed the way he did when he was trying to fix something, and Anders’s heart broke again, even though Anders was sure it couldn’t break anymore. 

Anders slid out of his barstool, feeling woozy with fatigue, or maybe he was drunk. Hawke shuffled behind him.

“Anders, wait,” Hawke said, and then Anders’s wrist was encased in a large, warm hand, just as another pair of hands grasped his shoulders. Anders looked up, vision swimming a little, and saw a familiar mustache. 

“Jaime,” Anders breathed. 

“My friend,” Jaime said, voice soft and kind, but his eyes were fixed sternly on Hawke. “Let’s go back to the clinic, yes? You look like you need rest.”

The idea was so appealing, he nodded before he even really thought about it. Hawke’s hand was still on his wrist, a familiar and comforting weight, but Anders couldn’t bring himself to look back. 

“Come,” Jaime said, and as he wrapped an arm around Anders’s shoulders and began to steer them away, Hawke’s hand fell from Anders’s wrist. 

Jaime corralled him through the bar, and soon they were outside, the cool night air shocking Anders into lucidity. As they walked, Jaime still holding him close, Anders felt tears welling up in his eyes. 

He sniffled, rubbing at his face. Jaime glanced at him for only just a moment before focusing on where they were going. 

“Old memories?” he asked quietly a few moments later. 

“Yes,” Anders replied, voice cracking a little. 

In the moonlight, Anders couldn’t make out much, but he could hear the soft noise of pain from Jaime’s throat. Anders let himself fall into Jaime’s side, grateful to be so understood. 

“Oh _mon amour_ ,” Jaime breathed as they wound their way back to Darktown. “ _Mon amour, je suis désolé._ I’m _sorry_ , Anders.”


End file.
